


Hypothermia, Anyone?

by pprfaith



Series: Wishlist 2016 [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison Argent, Canadian Shack, Huddling For Warmth, Humor, M/M, Monster of the Week, Not Beta Read, Prompt Fic, Ridiculous Fic is Ridiculous, Snow Storm, Wishlist_Fic, trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: In which there is an inconvenient blizzard, a semi-convenient Canadian shack and a very convenient werewolf space-heater.
(Wishlist, Day 14)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For screaming-toward-apotheosis who asked for Chris/Peter with the classic huddling for warmth scenario, shack included. It did not get explicit, because I suck at that, but I think it turned out okay. I hope you like it.

+

“Well,” Peter observes drily, “It’s better than freezing to death out in the open.”

Chris, coming to a halt next to the other man, frowns. “You think?”

The shack can barely even be called that, four walls and a roof, all made of wood, and even in the faint, grey light filtering through the storm, he can see all the gaps the wind is bound to whistle through. 

Still, Peter is right. Their car is out of reach and out here, they’re definitely fucked. 

So, drafty Canadian wilderness shack it is. Sometimes Chris hates his life. A lot. 

Peter, sensing his thoughts, snorts and grabs him by the arm, hauling him through the knee-high snow toward a rickety porch and then through a flimsy door. He slams it shut behind them and finds a random piece of broken siding, which he jams under the door to keep it shut. 

It’s not even half a degree warmer inside than it is out, but the wind through the cracks has nothing on the actual blizzard just gearing up outside. 

Also, “Please tell me there is wood,” Chris demands, already on his knees, clearing debris from the small fireplace set along the right hand wall. Peter mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath, removes the wedge and tromps back out into the unseasonal snow. He returns after a few minutes of banging around the back wall of the shack, arms stacked high with chopped wood.

Some of it is rotting and all of it is dripping snowmelt everywhere, but it looks like it might burn. While Chris and his trusty lighter finagle something like a decent fire, Peter stalks the perimeter of their new palace in the woods, stuffing the biggest cracks with leaves, moss, broken wood chips and whatever else the floor of the empty cabin yields. 

By the time they’re both done, Chris has regained feeling in his fingers and lost it in his toes. 

His phone, miraculously, chirps. It’s Stiles, sending a simple question mark. A request for a status update. Chris types out a quick, “Ok, safe, potentially freezing to death” and hopes it’ll get through the storm.

With a normal storm, he wouldn’t waste any time trying to get reception, but this storm is anything but natural and so the signal from his phone, covered in runes and a spell or two, curtesy of their resident spark, might get through. 

After all, it was how they were warned, too. 

He and Peter took off for the Canadian wilds yesterday to try and find a long-lost talisman of some kind that might apparently help against the witch that’s been sacrificing children up and down the Californian coast. 

They were almost as the cave their research pointed to when Stiles’ message reached them. 

_Blizzard headed your way, completely out of nowhere. Weather services are going nuts. Don’t think this is natural. Get out of there, guys._ And how annoying is it that the only times Stiles uses full words and actual punctuation is in texts?

Despite the warning, though, no matter how fast a a werewolf and a sufficiently motivated hunter can move, magically induced snow storms move faster. 

Ergo, shack. 

Oh god, his inner monologue is starting to sound like Stiles. Not that Chris doesn’t like his daughter’s friend, quite the opposite, really. Along with him and Peter, Stiles is often the only one willing and able to counteract Scott’s ridiculously well-meaning and idiotic optimism. 

The pragmatism squad, Lydia called them once, before swanning off to Harvard to be rid of all the madness. He wishes she’d taken Allison along. 

“Anything new?” Peter asks, wandering over to put a hand on Chris’ shoulder to try to read his phone. 

Chris tucks it away because it’s never a good idea to give Peter too much leeway and offers, “Stiles asking for an update. I sent it, don’t know if it got through.” He means to shrug, but it turns into a full body shiver instead. Damn it. 

Peter frowns. “We need to get you warm,” he decides, like Chris is some little kid, needing to be looked after. He was killing all kinds of creatures before Peter was done chasing his own tail in the woods, thank you very much. 

“I’m fine,” he rebuffs, only for the werewolf to roll his eyes. 

“Clearly. It’s why I can hear your teeth chattering.”

“Well, then by all means, run me a hot bath and turn up the heating,” Chris snarks. “Oh, wait.”

Another eyeroll. One day, Chris will poke a Hale’s eyes out just so he doesn’t have to see that ridiculous eyeroll anymore. They all do it and it always involves their entire heads, too. Ridiculous. Despite that, he lets himself be towed back toward the pitifully smoldering fire. On his half-frozen face, even the little heat it pumps out feels scorching. He’s still wondering if it’s enough heat to warrant taking off his wet boots when Peter starts stripping off his parka.

Followed by his sweater. 

And then his Henley, leaving him in only a t-shirt. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Chris demands.

The look Peter shoots him is nine parts leer and one part spite. “What do you think, my dear Christopher?”

He pauses just long enough for Chris to open his mouth again, then talks right over him. “We need to get your poor human body warm. I don’t fancy dragging your frozen carcass back to your daughter. She might shoot me. Again.”

Allison never really got over Peter killing Kate. Neither did Chris, if he’s honest, but he has had years to separate Kate, the person who seduced a minor and murdered innocents, from Katie, the little sister who stole his knives and kept a secret stash of Backstreet Boys posters under her bed.

He loved Katie. 

He didn’t even know Kate. 

Mostly, he and Peter try not to poke at old wounds too often. God knows, they both have more than enough sore spots to leave each other bleeding. No. Chris just keeps his mouth shut and Peter gets his vicious need to rip into people out of the way by verbally sparring with Stiles, who gives as good as he gets every time. 

“That does not explain why you’re stripping,” Chris points out, reasonably, only to have his hands pulled out from under his armpits and his coat unzipped. Peter peels it off him and then buries his hands under Chris’ layers of clothes, presumably to feel how cold he is. 

And Chris, damn his human body, just sort of melts into Peter, despite knowing better because, Christ, the wolf runs hot. On a normal day, the wolves’ tendency to run a few degrees above human normal seems unremarkable, but right now the werewolf feels like a furnace to Chris. Peter’s hands on his cold ribcage actually _hurt_. 

He bites back a grunt of discomfort and stops complaining for a moment. 

Right up until Peter steps back and starts undoing the laces of his boots, shortly followed by stripping off his wet-to-the-thigh jeans. He puts everything wet down beside the fire, spreads his coat and sits down on it, dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. 

“Well?” he demands, leaning back on his hands, giving Chris a too-sharp grin. “It’s snuggle time, Christopher.”

He should have taken Stiles instead of Peter. He’d be running his mouth, too, but at least he wouldn’t be low-key sexually harassing Chris at the same time. 

He doesn’t realize he’s said that out loud until Peter laughs. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” the man orders, holding Chris’ gaze, steady as anything. 

Somewhere, Victoria is spinning in her grave. 

Chris takes off his boots, leaves his jeans and lets Peter pull him down and wrap himself around him in a giant werewolf hug, their coats wrapped around them like a cocoon. 

Peter’s chin hooks into his shoulder and eventually, the wood dries out enough for the fire to give off actual warmth. 

Slowly, blood returns to Chris’ extremities as he thaws. Outside, the storms hits full-on blizzard and howls like it means to stay that way. His phone stays silent and, almost against his will, the hunter slumps into the werewolf’s embrace. He’s warm, he’s solid and Chris hasn’t slept in way too long, thanks to the mess the witch left them with. Aside from his daughter’s hugs and the occasional, mistimed bro-fist from Stiles, this is the first prolonged human contact Chris has had since his wife died in his arms. 

He’s almost dozing off when Peter scoots closer, dropping his hands from around Chris’ shoulders to his stomach and then, “My, Christopher. Is that your gun, or are you just happy to see me?”

Chris elbows Peter hard enough to make him wheeze. And then he decides that some physical exertion is probably going to help keep him warm. 

+

He’s woken long after the sun has risen blindlingly over the snow piled outside to the sound of Peter’s low growl. A moment later he figures out why. 

An engine. Someone is coming. 

Five minutes later, someone bangs against the shack’s flimsy door and then Stiles crashes through, wide-eyed and slightly panicked only to recoil, slap a mittened hand over his eyes ad screech, “Oh my god, I did not need to see this! Pants! Pants! Put some fucking pants on!”

Peter just smirks, but Chris narrows his eyes. “Are you out here alone, Stiles?”

Eyes still closed, fumbling backwards toward the door, Stiles mutters, “Yeah, I am. Because it turned out the witch was a dumbass and exerted herself with the blizzard so we could finish her off without the talisman and you guys were the only ones missing and your amulets said you were fine, but I thought I’d be considerate and fetch you anyway, drove all night, too and _fuck_! Peter! Sit the fuck back down or put some pants on! Fuck!”

He finally finds the doorjamb, hauls himself back out onto the porch and stomps away, still muttering to himself. 

Chris wiggles his cool fingers and toes, grabs for his t-shirt, discarded to one side and then meets Peter’s eyes.

The werewolf’s already staring back, leer firmly in place. “I think we traumatized the poor child,” the comments, sounding pleased with himself, because of course. Peter Hale, everyone. 

Chris sighs. “This was a really bad idea.”

“Kept you warm, though,” is the counter.

It did, at that. This time, for once, Chris is the one rolling his eyes. Peter snorts. Outside, Stiles sounds like he’s praying to some pagan deity to erase his memory. 

Just a regular Tuesday for the McCall pack. Damn but he needs coffee.

+

**Author's Note:**

> Come tumble with me [here](http://www.wordsformurder.tumblr.com/).


End file.
